


Discordant

by 784



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, F/M, Lawyers, Romantic Comedy, shitposting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/784/pseuds/784
Summary: Byleth Eisner meets a nice man.Byleth Eisner wants to flirt.(Byleth Eisner is miserable.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Discordant

**Author's Note:**

> I love ancient and classical histories, especially warfare studies. Thus, the chapters in this story draw inspirations from passages taken from warfare manual and treatises I collected.
> 
> ~~Yes, this AUdelgard retains her original brown hair.~~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The surprise is, therefore, not only the means to the attainment of numerical superiority; but it is also to be regarded as a substantive principle in itself, on account of its moral effect. When it is successful in a high degree, confusion and broken courage in the enemy’s ranks are the consequences; and of the degree to which these multiply a success, there are examples enough, great and small. We are not now speaking of the particular surprise which belongs to the attack, but of the endeavour by measures generally, and especially by the distribution of forces, to surprise the enemy, which can be imagined just as well in the defensive, and which in the tactical defence particularly is a chief point."_
> 
> Carl von Clausewitz, _Vom Kriege [On War]_. Chapter IX: The Surprise.  
>  Translated by Col. JJ Graham. 1847.

She walks out of the courtroom confidently.

A group of reporters follows behind her with cameras and microphones. Some of them have tape recorders at the ready, ever alert anticipating her every move. Will she say something? Will she turn around and address them—including these questions they are preparing for her?

“Attorney Eisner?”

She keeps walking. Her expression is icy but not hostile; just another trademark she is known for. Her footsteps are light and almost soundless despite the pair of well-polished ankle boots crowning her feet. Her gaze is sharp too—she doesn’t even need to tilt her face or bob her head to watch where she is going. The staircases are familiar to her, as she has been there multiple times. Strong sunlight isn’t something she is bothered with, either—she has mastered the art of being ready and prepared. Her blouse is comfortable. Her blazer is tailored to fit her build, without a wrinkle should some curious person, for some person, decides to zoom a photo of her taken during the day.

She quirks her lips effortlessly. She knows they will.

With a simple sway, she pivots on her leg, making a perfect ninety -degree turn so that she comes face to face with a legion of reporters who chase her footprints. “Good afternoon, press folks,” she addresses them so calmly. “What happened is exactly what you saw inside. I won’t be commenting any further rather than what is already clear.”

“Attorney Eisner, the defense team of Mr. Methodey claimed that what happened was nothing but a mere computer malware. How do you react to this?”

“I don’t know any computer malware which causes you to mine unconsensual feet photos off your colleague, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. Methodey threatens to sue back for privacy breach. What do you say to that?”

“It seems to me even his computer is a little bit confused,” she replies flatly. The questions slow down a little bit and she merely gives the legion a small smile. Unperturbed, calm, reliable—no way they will break her after successfully suing the shady businessman for the photos he is never entitled to in the first place. “A breach suggests this is a man-made accident. Computer malware, on the other hand, is a machine designation.” As always, she delivers her response straight to the point. That, after all, is something she always aims to be—a mind that is logical and a sturdy defense armor which won’t be dented by argument bunnies. Writers talk about plot bunnies—perhaps attorneys like her have their own too.

“Is there not a possibility of data breach conducted by a vengeful person, Miss Eisner?” one of the reporters finally volunteers. The whole debacle is weird. Sometimes being a journalist means being ready for the toughest terrain—including discussing stolen feet photos. This reporter cannot wait to go back worshiping Goddess Sothis at the church.

“Private lives are beyond the line of my profession, regardless of my clients or the person they are facing in that room,” she replies diplomatically. “However I believe the existence of a disgruntled person from the past, on the contrary, will _not_ rule out what is decided there.”

Silence cannot be louder afterwards. People stare at her, half amazed and amused. Those who have been following her so far should have understood that she will never come to the courthouse to play—she is there to fight, and she is there to win the fight. Someone should warn the newer reporters who have never followed a court drama before—they are going to learn something today, including a name they will ever forget.

“We also heard Mr. Methodey cussed you out after you obliterated his legal team back there,” another reporter mutters sheepishly. Someone _should_ say something, right? First of all, this silence is pretty eerie. Second, how about the precious cassette tape and phone battery spent just to record those cricket sounds?

“Did he?” shrugging, she reaches into her pocket. A pair of black sunglasses now resides in her grip. Even the reporters there cannot pretend they didn’t see the details—the temples of her sunglasses are of metallic pink color, beautified by vegetal gold accents decorating them. It does not seem to faze her at all that a dozen of people are practically stunned by her celebrity-style of sunglasses-whipping gesture. “I didn’t notice.”

Her photo decorates the page where Drakontios law firm lists its main team. The cases she has laid a hand on often to be the cases which attracted attention, worthy of those prime-time news slots. Her name, despite uncommon, has become memorable enough that it is practically associated with female attorneys now. Graceful but sublime, the courtroom warrior does not know defeat—even if she has to retreat, she leaves her battle with a draw.

“Um,” the same reporter squeaks. “He called you a…” scratching his head, he tries to look at her again. However for some indescribable reason, it’s almost like his will power is being purified out of him—disappearing into thin air. Did he ever have it at all? Perhaps a goddess requires deference. Perhaps he is not worthy.

“Yes?”

But ah, the goddess’ calmness is indeed lulling.

“A—bowl-eyed bitch.”

Everyone else gasps. There’s name-calling! There’s an insult! Figurative pearls are being clutched while shrieks are out like a dainty Victorian maiden. Everyone waits warily, eager to see if the insolence manages to dent the goddess’ icy expression. What is she hiding behind those sunglasses? Everyone holds their breath when they see the goddess’ glossy lips simply twitch. She clutches the hinge of her glasses, sliding it down a little bit. Some of them are disappointed. Some others, however, are intrigued—there is not even a drop of anger manifesting in her eyes. Instead…

“I have nothing to say regarding Mr. Methodick’s creativity,” she remarks simply, sliding back her glasses. Her smile grows wider—wicked this time, as she bobs her head. “Thank you very much. Good afternoon.”

Chatters and murmurs accompany her departure towards the parked car by the gate. A swirl of brown hair welcomes her the moment the window of the driver’s seat is rolled. The woman behind the wheel merely smiles and waves at the reporter. At the front passenger seat, a serene man with green hair nods at her; to which she nods back before opening the back door to slide in inside comfortably. The car starts, leaving dusty footprints of the venue it leaves behind.

“Did she…” the reporters begin to chatter with each other. “Do you think she did it on purpose?”

“Did what?”

“Didn’t she say… never mind,” the confused reporter can only stare forward. Whichever the truth is, again the goddess has successfully conquered them—effortlessly as always.

********

She grunts when the rooster crows for the third time. Her right leg makes a quick sweep _over_ her nightstand, ready to make emergency tenders out of it. However only then she realizes _that thing_ isn’t an aspiring KFC; rather, it’s her own alarm, trained in the art of deception because the last time her alarm clock made an earful ringing noise, she drowned that unfortunate device in her water glass.

“Shit!” she clicks her tongue, feeling that nice, nice bump against her own drawers when her knee hits the wrong target. With bleary eyes and definitely a nice set of cusses, she begins to suspect the martyred alarm clock placed a curse on her in-between of its dying battery.

Her eyes nearly burst out of their sockets the moment they land on her phone screen. With yet another cuss ready to fly to Mars, she _t-kicks_ her blanket. It falls unceremoniously on the floor, leaving a pile of mess which she _truly_ aims to ignore until tonight. Grumbling, she slides the phone _behind_ the shorts she wears to sleep, pulling undergarments out of the drawer she also yanks open… with her foot.

“Hi there, this is Google Assistant!” a _cheery_ machinated voice greets her.

“Fuck off, love,” she sighs. How could she forget a simple touch easily activates this unwanted super-smart electronic secretary?

Fishing a hair tie out of her pocket, she neatly wears her hair into a messy bun, leaving her strands wildly frame her face. However she caves in—she pulls out the phone from behind her waist, punching in a series of numbers to unlock it. Her schedule appears before her in mere seconds, and she hums pleasantly. Her timetable still looks like the way it was as she left it last night. No sudden change which she dislikes, no extra plan which she dislikes even more. No sudden invitation to a food treat from her colleague, either, which… she _hates_ the most. Meeting with Edelgard, Jeritza, and Seteth—her boss—for the first time in the morning? She can do that. Drakontios law firm’s main team is small but cohesive, and despite all the differences, she takes pride in her job—as well as the fact the three of them have never seriously tried to murder each other so far. Seteth is a different case, though, but then again Jeritza called bluff and Edelgard blamed the little near-electrocution incident on the office’s old microwave.

… Improvisation is important since their office doesn’t have a cat.

Byleth Eisner, twenty-something millennial and allegedly not ancient, never once imagined her life would take a turn this way. Winning a scholarship to a prestigious law school was never in her to-do list, but by some miracle—or as her colleague Jeritza said with a flat face—Goddess’ Sothis irresponsible designation, she filled out a digit wrong on the form she submitted, effectively changing her preferred major to law.

“Everything must happen because of a reason,” her mother remarked. “And this is probably the sign that will change your life. Ah, what a blessing, Bylie…”

“This is the sign that you shouldn’t write formal documents half-asleep out of overeating,” her father muttered. Yet that vintage song does have a point—for what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught! Jeralt Eisner learned the hard way—never defy Sitri Eisner by corroding her faith in the goddess, let alone when his Viking-style braid is within her convenient reach to pull.

But mothers’ words are probably more magical than what Byleth can give credit for because she ended up winning that scholarship. School was rigorous, more rigorous than the days she spent hitting the sandbag with her father. However she figured there was probably indeed a virtue to this all, because she managed to land paid internships… and hard work paid off when her graduation was certain; definitely right on the mark with gold-colored GPA.

… Or so she thought, because her parents beamed at her. Judging from the praises, she managed to deduce that… first, her dear mother was glad because she didn’t try to murder anyone whilst in school. Second, her father was deathly relieved because his colleagues had been talking about her behind her back—not in the best manner possible.

“Your daughter—law school? Pfft!”

“Byleth, when will you get married?”

“No plan so far,” she had replied coolly. “When is your funeral?”

Screeches howled. Eyes bulged. Figurative blood diamonds were also figuratively grasped because that reply was too much for that table full of idle middle-aged people to merely grasp a set of dainty Victorian pearl parure.

“You—law school,” one of them snickered, trying to turn the table on her. Surprise attack is forbidden, they said; but of course by that they meant it is forbidden only if they have come to be on the receiving end. Byleth, on the other hand, merely peeked from the glass of lemon juice she had been gladly sipping from—if they thought they could corner her tactically, then expect to lose tactically too. “What a joke. How do you even…”

Byleth probably had enough lemons for the day. Jeralt was writhing in his well-established places-only nice shirt. She hovered over the nosy uncle, smiling so sweetly, taking him off guard at an instant. The Eisners’ mint-haired pride didn’t just smile- _smile_ like other people! There had to be something, and as captivating as the stolen moment was, they knew better than to sit idly—

“With a full scholarship,” she had whispered then, purposefully making it _very_ demure and modest. The rest of the evening commenced civilly afterwards without any irresponsible thrown quips. It wasn’t that Byleth didn’t notice almost everyone who shared that table practically held their heads low, but it was Jeralt who wisely excused himself before he got sued with murder attempt—right when others chuckled about staying longer than intended to avoid nagging wives, he, on the contrary, wanted to be home earlier because he missed his wife.

“What wait you at home, though? Come on, Eisner. One more, and…”

“Cuddles,” Byleth’s father replied with a straight face—an expression she inherits from him so well. “And snacks. I don’t know, doesn’t matter.”

Not even the shiniest balding head was immune from the pure terror at that time, but that is surely another tale for another night; perhaps for another generation to come. When Byleth asked if her father ever dreamt of being declared enemy of the people for making his peers jealous like that, Jeralt Eisner said no, and yet—”My pleasure.”

“Byleth.”

“Morning, Edelgard,” Byleth greets her colleague. The Hresvelg heiress serves as a non-equity partner at the Drakontios law firm which they work at. Together with Seteth they lead the small-but-strong team, including her and Jeritza as associates, Mercedes as their top-notch paralegal, and lastly Manuela as legal secretary whose desk borders Seteth’s office like a loyal guard. Mondays never start calmly at Drakontios firm and by now Byleth has grown accustomed to it as well.

“The meeting,” Edelgard replies simply. Byleth quirks her lips, liking the way the heiress reminded her. It is concise and to the point—rather cold, perhaps; firm like a command yet suitable for her rhythm. No unnecessary talk. No unnecessary friendly exchange to greet each other and ask about each other’s weekend—that can wait.

“Sure,” Byleth says, pouring herself some coffee. “I’m on my way.”

She winces, though. Still being clad in the clothes she wore to sleep with a glass in her hand sounds like the opposite of being on her way… unless her boss understands that she is on her on way to the bathroom. “Spoiler, please.”

“As expected!” Byleth imagines Edelgard nods in satisfaction, ready at the office as usual. With her sleek, expensive tailored blazer and a cup of godly-aromatic bergamot tea by her side, Byleth pictures Edelgard probably already starts the morning as they speak, gaze sharply directed at the TV or morning newspaper. “That’s how our promising associate is supposed to be.”

Byleth winces—deeper. The only promising thing here is her grilled sausage.

“Ah, your question, yes,” Edelgard faintly slurps the tea. Byleth secretly adores the Hresvelg heiress’ perseverance for sounding... normal. “There’s an unexpected situation which I expect… to hit.”

“An unexpected situation that you expect to hit,” Byleth replies. “How curious.” Concerns begin to brim in her mind when Edelgard doesn’t respond. It is one thing to have people being pensive or silent because of her answers; yet Edelgard von Hresvelg is not someone who is easily intimidated by anything—let alone some flat replies which rival her own firmness. “… El?” Byleth calls.

“A-ah. Yes?”

Byleth pictures Edelgard trying to salvage that precious bergamot tea. She secretly wishes Edelgard doesn’t lick the spilling liquid off the desk, though. “How dire is this dire?” she asks, hooking a bag of sandwich loaves with her foot. Sweet—that simple plastic bag safely lands in her grip. If only her toe didn’t have to hit the microwave along with it, though. “If it’s Jeritza, you can always lock him in the fridge. Our sherbet is there.”

“No, sadly not,” Edelgard sighs. “I’ll… tell you when you get here.”

Byleth takes turn pausing. She mumbles an affirmative reply. Something seems to be _that_ concerning then. If it’s not Jeritza, then what? If it’s just Seteth, there isn’t really any reason to sound so hesitate and uncertain. What is it that Edelgard isn’t sure of, anyway?

She wastes no time either. Racing her own shadow, Byleth finishes showering as fast as she can. Slapping a generous amount of sunscreen, she applies some foundation on her face, opting out for the usual glossy lipkit she typically wears. Mild schadenfreude hits her senses when Google Assistant gulps because she locks her screen, banishing the little communication device into the front pocket of her backpack. Her charger follows suit too—if her phone is dying, she can just charge it at the law firm later. Fishtail braid follows in no time as she stretches her legs to fit into her work pants.

“Call to arms,” she mutters, grabbing her keys. Like a good warrior she is ready to be deployed. Byleth rushes. Her motorbike is loyally parked outside. Her smirk blossoms as she puts on her helmet—perhaps there’s indeed something to goggle at; after all it isn’t everyday attorneys who work at a prestigious law firm mount a motorbike and docks at an allegedly haunted house.

Byleth’s mind swirls. Inheriting Jeralt’s bike when her parents bought a new car is one thing. Silencing the previous generation who masked their insults regarding her suitability at the field as concern is another. But to _prove_ that she belongs is another task for every single day and Byleth knows the motorbike has become something sentimental as well. There is trust, there is care and probably prayer considering Sitri used to remind Jeralt whenever he was out when Byleth was a wee child—drive well, and return safely.

Perhaps it was a good thing to ride with Seteth and Edelgard when they were out to fight Methodey and his team—the motorbike will surely fill the newspaper’s front page and she does _not_ want to go to war for that.

Byleth’s patience runs thin. Cars fill the lanes wherever she sets her eyes on. Roads are crowded, full of nervous people who are in hurry just like her. By now Byleth begins to suspect those who work office like her must have traded their corporate-worthy smile and customer service calmness with something else—the anger at the road!

“Hey, move it, slowpoke!”

“This lane doesn’t belong to your grandfather, dumbass!”

Byleth’s head throbs. Cars honk at each other as though they are blasting Greek fire out of Byzantine navy’s dromon ships. Just her luck—apparently there is an ongoing construction at the hook of the road, which slows down the traffic greatly as well! It’s so tempting to yell back when other cars try to outrun her bike despite the narrowing lane. Not only that—what can this grenade-throwing do to help with the traffic? Small children in school buses fidget nervously. If she is a bystander who happens to capture their hollow expressions by chance, then it has to be worse for them inside.

Byleth hits the gas. Paladin—her motorbike—roars viciously in the middle of a packed street. She slides down the visor of her helmet back to cover her face, having had enough with the crowded street. Slow but sure cars are being redirected to another lane, and she _knows_ following that line—even if she duels other vehicles around her—will land her half an hour late to Drakontios law firm—

_VROOM!_

And here is another middle finger to four-wheelers who seem to think she doesn’t deserve being in the same lane just because she drives a motorbike! After multiple failed assassination attempts… ahem, multiple failed attempts of casting her bike aside so that it gets squeezed between lanes, Byleth knows she needs to find an alternative route before she gets dragged to the court for manslaughter.

However her luck seems to be testing her. Right when she thinks she has successfully avoided the obstacle, the real challenger emerges—a giant manhole, the center of the whole construction job because they are assembling underground wires!

“Google Assistant, what do you need?” her earphones croaks in the same familiar robotic tone. Desperate to avoid the manhole out of reflex, Byleth hits the brake, tilting Paladin at a very awkward angle so that they don’t collide with the yellow hurdle which the workers installed for safety measures.

“A miracle!” annoyed but also _panicked_ Byleth yells at her microphone. Her strong hands manage to tighten her grip over Paladin’s handlebars. She wants to put a leg down so she can sharply tether, changing the course of the bike altogether.

“The name is not in your contact…”

“You are not in my wishlist, either!” Byleth grumbles. The sharp rotation causes Paladin to arch closer to the ground, and Byleth makes a daring escape by propelling herself out before the bike crashes, taking her down with it. Shocked but also exhausted she takes off her helmet, and…

Her motorbike lands on the ground indeed.

The machine is still on—she can see the wheels spinning, growling like a dethroned warrior. Huffing, Byleth dusts herself off. She grabs the handles in a rigorous attempt to fish it out back standing—

“The fuck is happening?” she wipes her forehead. Something must have hindered the wheels because they refuse to move the way she wants when she is ushering. She quickly kills the machine upon realizing the ugly sound her bike is making. “Okay, phone,” she grumbles. “If you hexed Paladin, I’ll pawn you.”

The sun is blinding her and she wants to hang her head low in shame. Perhaps it is one thing to be bask in a spotlight in a such… unpleasant way, but at least that will make her visible to passersby and other drivers alike, which, in turn, makes it easier for her to find some help. Calling an automotive service? Where even is this? She has gone outside of the main road, stranded in the middle of grassy area. A garden? What?

Byleth breathes in. Control, control, control. Where is that unrivaled calmness which she is notoriously known for at the courtroom?

She calls her office.

“Jeritza,” muttering under her breath, she pictures her colleague having a nice breakfast at his desk. “Where’s El?”

“Why don’t you just call her?”

“Because I scrolled too fast and landed on Hrym instead of Hresvelg,” Byleth says. “I’ll be late. Accident happens.”

“And how late is this late?”

“Accident-late,” Byleth replies. “Bye.”

Frustrated, she drops her weight onto the grass, taking off her heeled shoes beforehand. Suddenly she hates this all. She hates accidentally dialing Jeritza instead of Edelgard. She hates this conflicting situation—especially when she figures kicking Paladin’s front wheel for the second time does nothing. Few cars she encountered _speed off_ when she tries to stop them. Alright, perhaps it’s because she holds her arms up in the air and flails them wildly. Perhaps it’s also because each of her shoes is in her hand, and those drivers might think they have encountered an evil spirit rather than an unfortunate driver.

Byleth _growls._ Maybe she should call Jeritza or Edelgard again for a lift. But what will become of Paladin? Can either of them even leave the office?

She tries to breath in again. There’s another car rushing towards her direction, and if still doesn’t work, might as well just go fuck-it, call an automotive service, then call in to work. Whatever. No assistance, no right to comment!

“Heeey!” Byleth shouts, hopping on her toes. Those cursed heeled shoes are still clutched in her hands, but no problem—if the driver of this _fancy,_ expensive-looking car will only roll down the window and snicker, then sometimes the key to key a car is a shoe.

The luxurious car slows down its speed. _Normal reason for a normal human,_ Byleth gauges. Should she make a ballerina-style jump too, just so the driver can see her foot and be convinced that she is not a ghost?

“S-O-S! Save our shoes! I mean—bike!” Byleth tries again—

… It works. The car stops!

Overjoyed—and also overwhelmed because this _shit_ is emotionally taxing—Byleth quickly puts down her arms and slides back those cursed shoes to wear them. She makes a small run to approach the car. Lucky for her, there’s no need to knock on the car because the driver already rolls down his window—

… Right, a he. There’s a blond-haired man at the driver’s seat, bespectacled wearing black sunglasses just like her. His hair strands are well-trimmed but not without a ragged charm; their ends are chopped at a sharp angle, creating that nice jagged, asymmetric look.

“Oh, thank you!” Byleth sighs. “Hi. Hello. Eh—I’m Byleth. Just so you know that I’m not a war criminal or grave robber. Um, a mugger. Oh, right—you probably don’t care. Why must you anyway?” she scratches her head. “Can I… uh, borrow your pump?”

“Sorry, I’m not lactating a baby at the moment.”

Byleth blinks.

“Not that kind?” the man asks. Byleth cancels her immediate plan to _bludgeon_ this dumb man with her shoe because—because his tone is genial. That really is his innocent reply—director’s cut, not the abridged version like in cinemas!

“No,” she huffs. “It’s my bike. We crashed—eh, kind of—but somehow it won’t move. Like something gets stuck there, so I figured it’s the air.”

“Hmmm. The wheels are probably damaged then. Slammed a sharp surface?”

She shakes her head.

“Then how come?” the man asks again.

“No change in shape and weight,” Byleth reasons. “I’ve checked.”

“Ah!” the blonde exclaims. “Smart lady.”

Byleth blinks.

The man casually takes off the sunglasses he is wearing, and Byleth wonders if her world is… frozen. Right—frozen! And no, she truly can’t let this go because there’s _no way_ for her to turn around and slam the door—she rides a bike. Being bothered by cold will make a weak alibi too—this is spring! Those are indeed the most beautiful pair of blue eyes she has ever seen so far. Bright like sunny summer sky but with a streak of depth within. The man spares her a faint smile, and Byleth wishes she could redo high school to relearn physics. Law of gravity! Law of force! Law of pendulum resonance!

… And law of attraction, which can be physical.

He gets out of the car whilst Byleth is still frozen-solid, each second only deepens her desperation considering there is no Charizard to shoot fire spin and deals super-effective damage against ice-type moves. Dumbfounded, Byleth follows the man’s movement with her eyes—which means his waist downwards. Nice slimfit silver blouse. Nice leg-hugging tailored brown pants. Such a shiny pair of oxfords, but overall what a nice face to look at!

She gasps when he closes his trunk.

“Where to?”

“I can show you the way,” she mutters sheepishly. The man merely nods, and…

“Hold on to me. Must be hard to walk in those shoes. Are you injured?”

People can let it go all they wan if they can’t hold it anymore and need a bathroom. She won’t. Her savior doesn’t only have a nice face—his voice is also nice. Rather deep, baritone-like; especially since he has spoken to her in a caring manner like that. Let it go? Oh no, haha. Don’t let go, haha. You are so delicious, haha.

“Oh, no, haha. Don’t be injured, haha. You are so cute.”

“What?”

Byleth voluntarily smacks her own head.

When the man crouches to examine her bike, she sincerely begrudges him in full now because his well-tailored clothing does an _excellent_ job to shape his figure. Nice waistline, she notes; especially with the well-built shaped arms of his peeking subtly as he bends down to tilt the motorbike to check the front wheel. Hold on—did he just _pick_ Paladin and tilt it as though it’s merely a matchstick, and not a whole hog with actual chassis and machine?

“Ah, seems the wheel is fine!” he says. Byleth detects genuine relief in his voice; something simple which she greatly values as well. He is concerned. He looks happy that nothing is wrong with her or the bike! “However, it seems to me that this bike is stuck into the ground. This is a part of the construction trail, isn’t it?”

She nods.

“I figured. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m new to town, so I need to get used to things,” sheepish but sincere he lifts an arm to ruffle his mane, making his first two buttons stretch… giving her a glimpse of his naked upper chest. “Already late, but then they detoured the cars there.”

“Hassling, isn’t it?” she grimaces. This time he nods.

“Got yelled at by a bike driver too. Saying these fancy cars are giving her a harder time compared to Google Assistant which she cannot uninstall from her Android phone.”

Byleth _winces._ Her face is red. The man’s not; he is smirking.

… Subtly.

“I guess I paid my due,” the man calmly remarks. “Alright—sorry for teasing you. I’ll get to work…”

… Contrary to popular belief, Byleth Eisner is actually well-aware of many things. First, control extends outside the courtroom—she likes a phone she can control too because the right to choose is human rights. Second, she also understands how contrarian this principal is because she only pays her phone as a nanny with alarm clock with electricity, and even if she chooses to reward the device with food, it cannot eat. She vows to get better, believing to stop taking it to the bathroom to be a good start. And third…

Third, she secretly acknowledges those magazines are right.

There is something tantalizing when Mister Blonde rolls his sleeves to his elbow and loosens his necktie… to take a hold of her hapless motorbike. Those blond strands swirl as he tilts his face, making a tame grunt to summon the strength he needs to pull her bike out of its misery. Byleth _cheers_ when Paladin’s wheels are free from confinement and gasps more artistically than a Victorian Parisienne because he _lifts and carries_ Paladin off the ground to return it to the lane, close to where he stops his car!

“Ah, right…” the blonde, unaware of being ogled like that, giving a nice pat over the wheels each. Byleth wonders if Paladin shrinks out of being shy too, or that his hand is big. Nevertheless, he scales the wheel and the chassis, and—

Byleth clears her throat.

“Done!” he announces cheerily. “I hope no more trouble, Miss.”

“I hope no more shirt too. I mean—yes, thank you very much.”

He bobs his head at her kindly.

“Um,” Byleth scratches her head. “How much?”

“Hmm?”

… Byleth secretly declares this man’s vocal chords to be her sworn enemy.

“You know,” she replies. “You helped me. You’re probably one of the cars I gave hell back there. I should—compensate.”

“Ah,” the man mutters thoughtfully. “No need. That’s not what I helped you for.”

“Why, yes. But…” she wants to argue, but he simply shakes his head. The smile he is wearing is still intact, yet at the same time there’s something… something which speaks sincerity and charisma at the same time. That too is lulling in a way; killing her fire to argue—and lets her be served. “I guess,” she continues, “this means no?”

“Indeed,” the man replies simply. “Let’s see if this is working.”

He doesn’t need to say it twice. Byleth ignites the machine. Paladin groans with the same familiarity as usual, and she finds no obstacle to get the warhorse moving as the machine starts. “It is!” she exclaims. “Oh, thank you. Truly, thank you! I’m already late and you saved me a great deal. Are you sure this is alright? Don’t you want ice cream or something? Tissue, to wipe that sweat off your chiseled chest? I mean. Tissue?”

… She wonders why it never crossed her mind to just give this man a woodcutter axe so that he can smack her in return, but much to her surprise, again gently he shakes his head, fingers forming a solid military salute at her. “No need,” his tone is kind, and the way he looks at her is rather soft. “That smile makes an enormous payment already.”


End file.
